


something bout you's heaven sent, so what i want's irrelevant

by rockcandyshrike



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 03:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockcandyshrike/pseuds/rockcandyshrike
Summary: “Feel better after powdering your nose?” Chirrut teased, pouring the kettle and setting it back on the stove.Baze snorted, cracking his neck side to side. “I’ll feel better when this damn sandstorm ends.”“That may be hours yet, my love, sorelax,” Chirrut pointed out reasonably, “Even we can’t fight the weather.”---A bit of fluff inspired by Polarcell's art. Because they deserve fic.





	something bout you's heaven sent, so what i want's irrelevant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arktikko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arktikko/gifts).

> Dedicated to Polarcell ILYYYYYYY, and Big Props to vaenire for beta-ing this fluffiness. Title comes from "Happy If You're Happy" by Matt and Kim ft. Skizzy Mars which is *SUCH* a Baze/Chirrut song.
> 
> Inspired by this art by Polarcell: https://polarcell.tumblr.com/image/185683102750

Chirrut contemplated leaving Jedha.

He could go somewhere warmer. Somewhere safer. Somewhere prosperous.

Somewhere with less Force-blasted _sand._

He stifled a sigh as he turned out the pockets of his robes and enough sand pooled out to form another, smaller Jedha. Outside the rooms he shared with Baze, the wind shrieked like an angry ghost as the nascent sandstorm they'd just escaped began to rage.

Baze harrumphed from the doorway where he was disarming and unwinding his protective headscarf. "Don't dump sand on the floor. We live in a glorified closet, not an eopie-sty."

"They look the same to me," Chirrut said with a blasé flick of the wrist. "There's no need to fuss, dear. I'll sweep and dust our glorified closet from top to bottom while you clean our clothes and equipment tomorrow. The same thing we do after every sandstorm."

Baze grumbled under his breath "that doesn't make it any better," as he stamped his feet and brushed himself off with his hands to shed the sand from his jumpsuit onto their ratty doormat.

Chirrut disrobed from his many layers in a fluid, habitual dance, the scars and muscles garnered from decades of hard battles revealing themselves like a flower unfurling for spring and wilting for autumn in quicktime—petals falling to be swept away by the wind to the far reaches of the world. Or rather, the hamper hunkered in the corner of their rooms, and thus leaving him in only his trousers and socked feet.

“You’re grumpier than usual today,” Chirrut said, “Let me make the tea this time.”

Baze grumbled something else, which Chirrut chose to ignore, and slipped into their tiny fresher. Chirrut walked over to their kitchen counter, clicking their old, battered radio on as he passed it. A light-hearted melody spilled into the air, coloring it brightly with pipes and drums and bells. Chirrut’s hands moved across the drawers in a well-worn routine, setting out a pair of chipped clay cups, a mesh infuser ball, the cloth sachet infuser Baze preferred, and a dented tin of whole tea leaves on the counter. Old Panya, who manned a herbs stall on Amaranth Market Street, had given it to them during a friendly visit last week. She’d pressed it into their hands with a sly, “Well I can’t sell shoddy-looking product, now can I?” and who were they to turn down a gift? It wasn’t the chav that Baze liked most, but it wasn’t tarine and that was good enough.

As he prepared the tea, he bopped his head along to the bouncy rhythm and put together a list in his head of all the people they would have to check on after the sandstorm passed. Killi, Kaya and the children of the orphanage, Denic, Nzoira and her wife, Silvanie Phest and the few remaining Disciples, Gesh, Kedig, Old Panya and her sickly son of course… The work of a Guardian never ceased. These days, the work kept piling up and up and up, like a volcano growing from the ocean floor til it crests through the waves, or the tension that was building in every corner of the city. Chirrut had a sneaking suspicion that one day Jedha would finally explode, but he pushed the dark thoughts away when he heard Baze clatter out of the refresher and plop down onto a floor cushion by their low table with a sigh.

“Feel better after powdering your nose?” Chirrut teased, pouring the kettle and setting it back on the stove.

Baze snorted, cracking his neck side to side. “I’ll feel better when this damn sandstorm ends.”

“That may be hours yet, my love, so _relax,_” Chirrut pointed out reasonably, “Even we can’t fight the weather.”

Baze grunted in reluctant acquiescence, which was two degrees softer than his grunt of grudging acceptance and slightly sharper than his grunt of noncommittal assent. Chirrut took it as a sign that his husband was slowly unwinding. He drummed his fingers against the sandstone countertop as he waited for the tea to steep, the floral scent wafting up to his nose. The song on the radio faded out, a long note held on the vandfill pipe that fluttered off into a triplet, before a new song faded in—Chirrut lit up like a firework when he recognized it.

“Baze! Do you remember this song? It played the night of Sister Ufe’s wedding,” he enthused as he swayed along to the cheerful music.

He could hear the smile in Baze’s voice when he replied, “The night you had too much hard suutsai milk and nearly toppled into the fountain in the main courtyard? How could I forget.”

“But I __didn’t__ fall into the fountain,” Chirrut baited, knowing full well he was setting himself up for Baze to volley back with something snappy.

His husband did not disappoint. “Because _I _caught you,” Baze drawled in that tone that wrapped around Chirrut’s spine like smoke, “And then you splashed me like a little pissant.”

Chirrut laughed and shimmied closer to Baze. “Your face was red as a roopum fruit! I had to cool you off somehow. You were blushing so hard even though we’d already been married for two years by that point.”

“You were flushed just as red from all the suutsai milk,” Baze retorted, the barely suppressed laughter shaking his voice, “Not to mention the fact that you’re a ridiculously handsy drunk.”

“I wasn’t being handsy, I was simply trying to get you to dance with me in the moonlight,” Chirrut quipped, body-rolled, and spun in circles til he ended up between Baze’s outstretched legs.

Baze bellowed out a laugh big enough to eclipse the sun before pulling Chirrut down into his lap.

“Is that how you’re supposed to dance? Wriggling like a worm on a hook?” he mocked as he playfully squeezed Chirrut’s waist.

Chirrut settled into Baze’s lap the way a cat might upon its favorite cushion, placed perfectly so in a beam of sunshine. It gladdened him to hear his husband’s levity, the way his presence in the Force had smoothed out from jagged ripples into his usual calm pulse. Chirrut remembered back when they were newly-minted novices how Baze would hunker under his covers during sandstorms—fearful because he had been born in the northern steppes, where whole yurts were blown off into the abyss during the worst storms. He remembered how he would slither under his covers so he could distract Baze with stories and plans for future pranks, dashing the tears from his eyes and replacing them with stars. Oh, how far they’ve come together.

“No, no, your form is all wrong. Like this,” he lectured in the voice he would use for the second-duan students during zama-shiwo lessons, hooking his right arm around Baze’s shoulders and taking his husband’s hand with his left to bring it up at an angle. “Your back must be straight as a rod, Baze Malbus. Your elbow as square as a military salute.”

Baze’s other hand naturally travelled down to rest upon the small of his back as he chuckled, the laugh vibrating right through their pressed chests into Chirrut’s lungs, more precious than oxygen and just as vitally needed. “Yes, Master Îmwe. What’s the next step?”

“Now, you must _move_ with your partner. If I push, you will ebb. If I pull, you will follow,” he continued to lecture in his Master’s voice.

“Wait a second, who’s leading here?” Baze jokingly protested, “I don’t think we’re in the right positions.”

Chirrut lifted a supercilious brow and demanded, “_Whomst_ is the one teaching here?”

“Are you really certified to teach?”

“That’s enough sass out of you, young man.”

“I’ve been going gray since my thirties and you know it, Chirrut; you’re the reason for most of it,” Baze said with a snort, even as he obligingly swayed backward when Chirrut pressed forward.

“Nonsense, you don’t look a day over twenty-five, my heart,” Chirrut cajoled, beaming like a gamma burst when Baze clicked his tongue at him.

"How would you know?," Baze snarked as he raked his nails up Chirrut's spine. He smirked when Chirrut couldn't fight down a shudder and a bitten-off whine. "The bags under my eyes have bags. They're planning on going to Naboo for vacation."

It was Chirrut's turn to snort. He pulled on one of Baze's warrior braids as they rocked together carelessly, earning an annoyed grunt from his husband that made him smile. “They should bring us along, I need to work on my tan. You’ll drive all the boys and girls wild with your beach body.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“Meaning you can’t think of anything clever to say,” Chirrut said, baring his teeth in a cheeky grin.

“As if you _ever_ have anything clever to say,” Baze shot back wryly and Chirrut laughed, brighter than an epiphany and sweeter than a first kiss.

The song on the radio petered out into something more languid, heartfelt keys and strings intertwined with a silky contralto. Chirrut sang along to the music—he didn’t know any of the words so he crooned absolute nonsense into Baze’s ear as he nuzzled his temple. Baze did his best to stifle his chortles, burying his face in Chirrut’s neck and soaking in the moment.

Outside their room, the winds howled and wailed with abandon, Jedha’s lament for her people as they were ground down by the boot of the Empire. But her people were sculpted from her stone, carved by trials and tribulations to withstand anything. So long as there was hope, the laugh of a child or a cup of hot tea at the end of a hard day, they would endure. For just this, Baze's warmth held close, his beloved’s fingers threaded through his own, Chirrut would outlast the stars growing cold.

Baze brought his head up to catch his mouth in a tender kiss. Chirrut returned it happily, turning soft and pliable as hot wax in his arms. When Baze leaned back to lie on their frayed old rug, one arm still locked around his waist and the other looping around his neck, Chirrut followed after his husband eagerly. He was rewarded with a pleased hum that buzzed through their lips and up his brainstem like high voltage. Chirrut sighed dreamily as he petted Baze's face, lingering on the near-invisible burn on the right side of his mouth that prevented Baze from growing a fully connected beard. Chirrut snorted when he remembered the lightbow construction accident that had led to the scar.

"What's so funny, dreamer?" Baze asked. 

"Reminiscing upon the time Elder Yuahl ripped you a new one after your lightbow malfunctioned and a piece of kyber caught you in the face," Chirrut responded, thumbing at the corner of Baze's mouth as it dipped down in chagrin. "His screech was so loud you could hear him from the Dome of Deliverance."

"Ugh, don't remind me of that. I wanted to die from embarrassment."

"It was a little funny," Chirrut admitted. 

"It was not." Baze said, flatter than a can crushed in a hydraulic press. 

"It was a _little _funny. Quote, 'If I had a credit for every time you blew up a weapon, Malbus, I'd have enough to get you AND myself a lobotomy. Because clearly I need one too for letting you into the foundry after last week!'"

A brief silence. 

"Alright,” Baze conceded, “That was a little bit funny," 

Chirrut pressed a kiss to the tiny bald spot. "And you ended up with this for all your troubles."

"This, plus a lightbow that could punch through walls."

"Ha!" Chirrut exhaled with force and sarcasm. "Yet you call me the ridiculous one."

"Because you are," Baze said firmly, reeling Chirrut back into a kiss that made him contemplate how much he wanted to walk straight tomorrow. "You know what else is a little funny?"

"What?" Chirrut asked breathlessly. 

The singer on the radio caroled like a lovebird of finding home in a warm embrace.

"You oversteeped the tea."

Chirrut cursed as he untangled himself to rush towards the kitchen and Baze laughed at him the whole time. 

If tomorrow brought a hundred more sandstorms, there was still no place Chirrut would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, whatever are all appreciated! i'm rockcandyshrike on Tumblr, hit me up! <3


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